Photo by Liz Young
“That must have been one hell of a party.”
“Rebecca! Language!”
“Oh, Father, really.”
“Don’t ‘Oh, Father me.'”
“Well, did I have fun?”
“If you consider drinking home brew with stable hands and smoking cigarettes with parlor maids fun then, yes, you had a splendid time.”
“Gosh, no wonder I feel a bit out of sorts.”
“Out of sorts. Do you remember milking Mrs. O’Leary’s cow?”
“Cow?”
“Yes, you left the lantern in the shed. When the cow kicked it over all you said was, ‘It’ll be a hot time in the old town tonight.'”
“God, I did have fun!”
Aila’s kitchen is quiet. She snugs into her silk dress and matching satin pumps, lights the paper lanterns and opens the door to her guests. How she loves the sound of laughter, the clink of crystal, the glorious tales her friends tell. Children race through the house of twenty rooms, their shrieks cause no disruption. Midnight comes. Goes. Where is my Raul? Aila wonders. The door bursts open, “The president has been shot! Come, Aila! They are searching for you!” Ten days later Aila lives in a migrant camp. What remains of her life? Six kids and an orange party dress.
Up From the Ashes 